Emberlight never truly slept. It just dimmed and pretended.
At night, the forges' glow bled through the fog, casting long orange veins over
the cobblestone streets. The hum of machines became softer, slower — like the
city was dreaming of fire. And in that half-dream, all manner of things crept out: thieves, engineers, conspirators, and the kind of people who thought
invention was just another way to gamble with the gods.
Gizmo fit right in.
He sat in his attic workshop, surrounded by scattered blueprints and flickering
runic lamps. The air smelled like copper and burnt tobacco. The Orb floated
near the open window, glowing faintly against the moonlight.
He tightened the last bolt on a small metal cube the size of his palm. Inside it, a web of cogs turned, powered by the Orb's pulse. When he pressed a switch,
the device unfolded into a miniature spider automaton that scuttled up the wall,
blinked once, and saluted with a click.
He smiled. "You're smarter than most of my old supervisors."
The Orb pulsed approvingly.
He leaned back, exhaling smoke from his pipe. Outside, Emberlight stretched
endlessly — alive, humming, waiting to be understood. And somewhere
within its labyrinth of gears and greed, people whispered about the goblin with
the glowing wrist and the machines that learned from him.
He'd become a rumor. He wasn't sure he liked that.
Later that night, he left the attic and wandered the city streets, the Orb dimmed
to a soft lantern-glow. Emberlight's lower levels were a different world —
tighter alleys, sharper shadows, cheaper dreams. He passed smelters,rune-shops, and gamblers who played with sparks instead of cards.
The Guild's insignia — a gear crossed by a hammer — was painted on almost
every wall. But in the cracks between its authority, other symbols hid: spirals,
flame marks, Shaper runes scratched into stone. Someone was remembering
things the Guild wanted forgotten.
A voice called from a side street.
"Hey, you the green one fixing engines for ale money?"
Gizmo turned. A human messenger leaned against a lamppost, holding a
sealed letter. "Message for you. No return mark."
Gizmo frowned. "That's ominous."
He took the envelope, tore it open. Inside, written in a quick, elegant hand, was
a single line:
"The Comet's Tail. Midnight. Bring your curiosity."
There was no signature. Just a faint smudge of silver powder along the edge —
Kaelira's runic ink.
He looked at the Orb. "Guess the city's done waiting."
The Comet's Tail was the kind of tavern that survived by being too valuable to
destroy and too dangerous to love. Its sign — a pewter tankard trailing a streak
of silver — swayed in the warm breeze above the Foundry's old riverfront.
Inside, heat and noise battled for dominance.
Steam filled the air, carrying the scent of ale and singed parchment. Mechanics
argued over schematics. Bards sang about machines that cried. Somewhere in
the corner, Tibbin was winning — loudly — at cards.
Gizmo slipped through the crowd, keeping his hood low. The Orb hid beneath
his sleeve, dimmed to a faint pulse. He found a table near the back and ordered
a drink that hissed when poured.
He didn't wait long.
Kaelira appeared like a blade unsheathed — moving through the crowd with
silent precision, her cloak brushing against sparks and laughter without
disturbing either. Her silver hair caught the light; her runic sword hung at her
side, humming faintly. She sat opposite him without a word.
"You came," she said.
"I was curious."
"Good." She sipped her drink. "Curiosity keeps the right people alive."
"And kills the wrong ones," he said.
She smiled faintly. "That depends on how clever they are."
A new voice interrupted them. "Mind if I sit? Or will I have to win the seat
first?"
Tibbin grinned at them both, flipping a coin before catching it midair. His tone
was light, but his eyes were sharp. "Didn't realize this was a reunion of
mysterious people with better weapons than me."
Kaelira arched a brow. "You're Tibbin Underhill."
"Depends on who's asking."
"Someone with an interest in not killing you yet."
"Ah," Tibbin said cheerfully, sitting anyway. "Then I'm Tibbin Underhill."
Gizmo smirked. "You two met before?"
"Rumors," Kaelira said. "He's made himself known."
"She's being polite," Tibbin replied. "I once stole from her employer."
"And you're alive?"
He winked. "I'm charming."
Kaelira didn't disagree.
The air in the tavern changed suddenly — laughter cut short, voices dropping.
Three men in black Guild armor stepped inside. Their badges gleamed gold in
the dim light, marking them as enforcers. They scanned the room with the kind
of eyes that looked for excuses to hurt someone.
Kaelira didn't move, but her hand rested lightly on her sword.
Gizmo exhaled. "You invited me to a party."
"Technically," she said, "I invited you to trouble."
The enforcers approached a miner at the bar — a man clutching a sealed
satchel. One of the guards grabbed him by the collar. "That package doesn't
belong to you."
The miner struggled. "It's a letter—"
A backhand cut him off. The satchel spilled open. Something bronze rolled out
— a capsule etched with spirals.
The Orb flared beneath Gizmo's sleeve.
"Ah," he whispered. "We're doing this again."
Kaelira was already moving.
Her runic sword left its sheath with a hum like a heartbeat, sigils glowing blue.
She cut through the tension — and the enforcers — in one elegant motion,
disarming rather than killing. Gizmo flicked his wrist; the bracer on his arm
snapped open, releasing a small smoke canister. The room filled with gray
haze.
"Bad form," he said through the fog. "Interrogations go in the back."
Tibbin's crossbow sang. A bolt pinned the third enforcer's sleeve to a beam.
"And you're blocking the bar. Tragic waste of space."
Kaelira stepped between them, blade glowing faintly. "Leave," she said.
"You're outnumbered."
The men hesitated. The Orb pulsed once — a faint echo that made their armor
vibrate.
They left.
The room exhaled.
Afterward, the barkeep brought them new drinks on the house. The miner
mumbled thanks before vanishing. Kaelira sat quietly, her blade resting across
her knees. Tibbin was already recounting the fight like it was a play he'd
written himself.
Gizmo studied the capsule on the table — small, bronze, old. The same spirals
as in the mountain forge.
Kaelira's gaze followed his. "You recognize it."
He nodded. "It's not a weapon."
"Then what?"
He turned it over in his fingers. "It's a memory."
The Orb glowed faintly in agreement.
"South," Kaelira said finally. "To the Myrren tunnels. The Guild's been
blocking all expeditions. But Thalos's notes — the ones the Guild didn't burn
— say the Vault lies beyond the river."
Tibbin frowned. "You're suggesting we travel outside the city. Together."
Kaelira's eyes narrowed. "You're welcome to stay."
"Not a chance," Tibbin said, grinning. "You'd die without me."
Gizmo smirked. "Confidence suits you."
"Everything suits me."
Kaelira rolled her eyes. "Then it's settled. We leave at dawn."
The Orb pulsed between them, faint and warm — as if the world itself
approved.
That night, they prepared in silence.
Kaelira checked her sword, murmuring old elven runes. Tibbin cleaned his
crossbow, humming an off-key tune. Gizmo tightened his gloves, adjusted his
bracer, and stared into the faint blue glow of the Orb.
"South," he whispered. "Into the ruins."
The Orb glowed once — ready.
They left Emberlight at dawn, the city's smoke rising behind them like the last
sigh of something ancient and half-asleep.
(End of Chapter Six)